


Haunting

by Wallwalker



Category: Final Fantasy VI
Genre: Canonical Character Death, F/M, Ghosts, Minor Character Death, Pre-Canon, Remix, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-15
Updated: 2011-03-15
Packaged: 2017-10-17 00:28:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,440
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/170987
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wallwalker/pseuds/Wallwalker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Locke couldn't let go... and so neither could Rachel.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Haunting

**Author's Note:**

  * For [JackOfNone](https://archiveofourown.org/users/JackOfNone/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Ghosts](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21927) by [JackOfNone](https://archiveofourown.org/users/JackOfNone/pseuds/JackOfNone). 



Rachel remembered the moment when she had realized she was a ghost.

It wasn't like waking up at all. It was slowly becoming aware that something was wrong, that she was not where she should be. At first nothing had been clear, and Rachel had seen the living world as if through fog, so thick she could barely recognize the faces of the people she'd seen every day. She would watch them move through their lives from the roof of the little house, for despite her best efforts she could not go any further. She had tried, but it was as if there was a tether on her ankle; something bound her there, and for some time she had not even known that it was her own body.

It had been jarring, seeing herself again - seeing how untouched she was, even after the ravages of injury and infection. Her cheeks had even been faintly pink, at first, as if she had been blushing. The color had faded, in time, and she had grown ever paler, but still whole, as if she had merely been sleeping that entire time, waiting for the spring.

So, that was what was holding her there. And she couldn't come back enough to ask why, couldn't force herself through the fog. She hovered between life and death, tied to a twilight existence, with little to do but watch as life went on around her. She watched children that she had once taken care of as they grew up, callow boys that became men who walked home from the mines in stained overalls, their eyes clouded with dust. She watched a few of them fall in love and marry their sweethearts in lovely spring ceremonies, and would have cried if she had still had eyes to cry with. She watched her neighbor, a sweet old widow who had once promised to help her make the perfect wedding gown for when she and Locke finally had their own ceremony, fall ill, and on one horrible day she saw her carried from her house in a coffin, carried by her two sons who no longer looked quite so carefree or young. All of it happened around her, and she could see it - parts of it, what she could see from where she found herself anchored - but could not touch any of it.

She hadn't been surprised when the old man had come down to look at her; he had always been a strange one, the old undertaker, his smock and his fingers stained with something that was not soil or grass. She had never trusted him, had always thought there was something strange, something unnatural that he was hiding. And there was little that could be called more unnatural than this, she would think as she watched his lips move. She never heard his laugh, and she was grateful for that, because his giggles had always made her shiver. No one who spent so much time around death could possibly laugh so much.

Rachel remembered saying as much to Locke once, not long after they'd met. He'd smiled crookedly at her and nodded his agreement, saying that he could hardly bring himself to trust the old man. She remembered that vividly - remembered many things vividly, because now that she was dead her memories of her life seemed to stretch out behind her in the haze, the only thing that felt real anymore. She hoped that they wouldn't fade away; she wasn't sure she could tolerate going on without them.

That memory only made it harder for her to accept the first time she saw Locke standing beside her, talking to the old man, his guilt and distaste clear in the twist of his lips and his downcast eyes.

Locke had done this? Locke was the one who was... keeping her here, who couldn't let her go? No, it couldn't be, she had thought. As much as she had loved Locke, she'd never blamed him for leaving; she remembered asking him to leave with a dim sort of regret, but that had not been anyone's fault. She had chosen to save his life; she had known that she might pay for it, maybe even with her own life, as she'd taken the and pushed him across the bridge. But she could see it in his eyes, the ghosts that haunted him, and she could feel the pain as if it were her own. It was eating him from the inside out, and that was why she was still there. That was why she couldn't let go; he was still holding on.

She couldn't hate Locke for it. How could she hate him then, when all she could remember of the days before the very end was how much she had loved him? If anything she pitied him, as she watched him stand in front of her preserved body with tears in his eyes. Pitied him, and loved him, and wished that he could hear her when she tried to comfort him. His lips always moved, as if she were speaking to her, but she could never hear anything; not even he could break the silence around her, it seemed. She needed to tell him that she was still there, that she knew how much he was hurting; even through the fog, she could see the pain on his face as he looked down at her, as his lips moved. He needed to know that she had forgiven him, truly forgiven him, and that both of them needed to let this go. But how could she, when he couldn't see her face or hear her voice?

And so there was nothing to do but wait, and while away the hours, and try to keep the time as a way to keep herself from going mad. It was difficult, at first; it was hard to count sunrises and sunsets when she could barely see the difference between either, and sometimes she would go back and lie down and try to sleep, but succeed only in going into long, grey reveries. But when Locke came back, bringing the roses, it became easier, in a way.

At first everything had been fuzzy and still and dark - no scent, no taste, and only the most muted of color. But one night, as she watched the empty sky and the quiet town, she became conscious of an odor - faint, at first, but sweet and delicate. It stayed with her, even though she knew she had no real nostrils to perceive it with, and at first she welcomed it, because it was something new - it broke up the monotony of existing in the haze between life and death, if that was truly what it was. It was not until she had gone back down to the little room that she realized what it was, and saw the old man standing near her resting place, a bouquet of brilliant red roses in his hands.

Roses. Locke's roses. He had given them to her before - she still remembered when he had started courting her. He had gripped the flowers so tightly, and his hands had shaken so violently, that petals were starting to fall to the ground; she had quickly taken them from him, smiling in what she hoped was a gracious way, and had put them in water and kept them in her room. Ever since then he'd tried to give her roses whenever he saw her, when they were in season, although he'd never been quite so nervous again. In a strange way, it was comforting to know that he was still giving her roses, even now.

But he kept bringing them to her, every time he came - months apart, long enough that the last roses should have long since rotted away. It must have been the old man; he was preserving them, somehow, the same way that he preserved her. And every time he preserved a new bouquet, the smell grew stronger, and their colors never faded. It was the only thing that broke the gray haze of the world around her, and she knew that she should've been grateful... but it had been a long time. There were ten bouquets of roses around her now, representing what she thought had been years since her death, and the strain of clinging to this world and the overpowering scent of roses was too much, all too much.

She loved Locke. She hated to think about leaving him, never seeing him again. But it was time... if only she could speak to him. If only he could hear.


End file.
